


Performance Anxiety

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Well... just because you're a Mountie doesn't mean you can't look.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:39:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser is having difficulty keeping his eyes on the road. (Challenge prompt, 'Performance Anxiety.')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the start of the episode, "The Promise."
> 
> Normally, I hate Fraser/Thatcher fics, but we know that he has eyes for her at least some of the time, even though nothing ever happens. Thank goodness. Because I'd have to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon.
> 
> And even though I posted in this in the wrong place, originally, I'd like to thank the kind admin of fan_flashworks for allowing me to post it to this collection.

Oh dear... Hm... this shouldn’t be so difficult. 

 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t drive. After all, he was a Mountie, and would never have qualified as such if he hadn’t been able to drive. Defensive driving, driving in inclement conditions, ice, snow, dark, high speed... he could do all that. But...

 

Driving in Chicago was different. Too many people running around, none of them, it would appear, pedestrian or vehicular, paying any attention to the rules of the road. And here he was, in a great metal weapon, trying to avoid them.

 

No, driving was not his favourite activity. Not in this city at least. No open roads, or big sky to get lost in. And as if all that wasn’t bad enough... 

 

“If you'd picked me up on time when I told you...”

 

It didn’t help that Inspector Thatcher wouldn’t stop berating him. Did she not realise the effect that could have on a man’s performance? For a moment his thoughts drifted off to a different kind of performance he might enjoy with the Inspector. He flushed, and kept his eyes, anxiously, on the road.

 

“Uhm, yes, Sir, I was...”

 

“Driving in endless circles around the justice building.”

 

“Well, Sir... there was a no stopping...”

 

“And I would be fully dressed and ready, and not half dressed...”

 

And oh good Lord, that was the real problem. The Inspector was half dressed on the backseat, and he couldn't stop thinking about performances... He swallowed, dryly, and thought of something else. It was proving very difficult to park, given that he couldn’t look in the rearview mirror. Did she not realise how very... oh dear, he couldn’t think of the word.

 

Distracting? No. Delectable... good Lord no. Despite himself he glanced in the mirror, and saw (delightful) a glimpse of bare shoulder. Delicious...

 

Stop it, he told himself firmly. It seemed his mind was stuck in the “D’s” of his mental thesaurus. Well... it could be worse. But, no wonder he couldn’t concentrate on his driving...

 

“... and late.”

 

He blinked. He couldn’t quite remember what she was talking about. But obviously, it was his fault. Whatever it was. 

 

“...uh... yes, Sir, and I do apologise but...”

 

“This is a Consulate vehicle with diplomatic plates,” she pointed out, sternly. “Nobody is going to haul you off to jail for double parking.”

 

She might have him hauled off to jail if she guessed what he was thinking about. 

 

“Understood... uhm, here are your tickets.”

 

She gave him "the look," in equal parts intimidating and enticing, and handed him her bag. Oh thank heaven, she was finally dressed. (Now if he could only stop thinking about undressing her.) “Put them in here.” Gratefully he put the tickets in her bag, handed it back to her.

 

All he had to do now was figure out where to park... Trying his best to concentrate he let her ramble on in the background. Pets, and wolf hair... at least she wasn’t lecturing him any more. Much. 

 

“There it is,” she broke into his thoughts. 

 

“Yes I see it...” Oh dear. His hands had started sweating on the wheel... and she was going stern again. Really, he shouldn't find that quite so...

 

“You need to stop,” she declared, like a head mistress. 

 

Could the woman not see the signs? “Well that would appear to be prohibited.”

 

“Stop anyway.” If a voice could freeze a man to death, that would be "the voice." 

 

“Certainly...” oh dear. He was trying to stop but... he just couldn’t.

 

“You're not stopping.” As statements of the blindingly obvious went, this one was up in the top ten. 

 

“No, Sir. I'm not.” Oh, good Lord, he told himself, stop for the love of heaven... Oh dear. This could go on for a long time... 

 

He caught a glimpse of the Inspector in the mirror, obviously irate and completely...

 

What else began with “D”?

 

He found himself starting on the “E’s”. Elegant, exquisite...

 

“Constable!”

 

“Parking!” He managed, somehow, to stop. She stepped out, with a clack of her heels. “I’ll wait...” he offered.

 

“I’ll take a cab,” she responded, frostily. 

 

Oh dear... 

 

Well, at least he had got her there. The traumatic part of the evening was over.

 

What else could possibly go wrong?


End file.
